


Blue

by lighthouse_at_sea



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassians are transphobic sorry, Episode: s04e01-02 Way of the Warrior, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Garak, Internalized Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lighthouse_at_sea/pseuds/lighthouse_at_sea
Summary: Garak makes a purchase.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine's kinda got me in a weird mood. Writing is grounding so have some random one shots.

Garak stared at the small tube, slim and innocuous.

The temporary market on the promenade was writhing with activity to remark upon wares that seemed to be from every corner of the Alpha Quadrant. Shelves full of Bolian oddities sat next to Orion products under Odo's watchful eye. Denobulan novels threatened to fall from their precarious piles and Garak moved dispassionately through it all, hands clasped behind his back.

It was going on four years since he had last stepped foot on his homeworld, and for so long, the thought of filling his quarters, playing house, on Deep Space Nine made him sneer. But that resolve was crumbling. The architecture around him should have been a comfort, but too bright and teeming with aliens, it was only a twisted mockery of what he had lost. He could have used his replicator, but he would know that whatever he requested came from a swirl of Federation molecules, not the churning factories of the Munda'ar Sector.

His homeworld did not export much beyond kanar and yamok sauce. No, Cardassia preferred to take and hoard.

When he found what he was looking for, he didn't know whether to curse or exalt at the meager sliver of real estate devoted to his people. The table, smaller than those in the Replimat, held a handful of thick Cardassian novels, shimmering glassware in traditional curves and ridges, and a hammered metallic bowl full of ch'omul.

Garak sifted through the novels. Mass produced drivel. Perhaps the doctor would be interested.

The glasses did not hold his interest either, as they were as clearly mass-produced as the books. And the ch'omul… was not for him.

Perhaps he could barter for the bowl, surely a sale was a sale. He glanced across the maze of tables. Bajorans and Starfleet officers wound around him, but he realized he did not know what the shopkeeper looked like.

He slid his finger along the burnished copper edge. The long black tubes inside had a matte finish, dull against their shining vessel.

Coolly, he plucked up a tube and flicked off the small cap. Inside, the ch'omul's blunt tip poked out, its dark shade of blue barely registered before the cap was clicked back into place.

It, too, was likely of cheap quality. It would leave a weak, pasty streak that no woman would be caught dead in. It would be the type of ch'omul sold in bulk to pad the shelves of a struggling street vendor.

The tube was still in his hand. And it remained in his hand until he found the shopkeeper, a Ferengi, no doubt making use of the inhabitants' ignorance of how cheaply he sourced his goods. The shopkeeper eyed him up and down when he saw the intended purchase and a stab of terror pulsated through Garak's heart. He smiled affably. Soon he was several strips of latinum poorer and one useless tube of ch'omul richer.

It burned in his pocket as he left the market.

His shop offered no respite. Customers came and went, some even placed orders. But his mind was almost as far away as when he had abused his implant, floating somewhere beyond the panic. He had just made a little purchase. With physical latinum strips that could not be traced back to him. He would go to his room in a handful of hours, and it would be just as monotonous as every other night.

The walk through the darkened station was usually a wry pleasure, but today he could not stand to be out in the open for another second.

His door closed behind him with a hiss. He let out a hiss of his own as he sunk to the floor and pressed his tired face into cold palms. The childhood memory, fresh in his head as all Cardassian memories were, ran through his mind.

All his chores had been finished, and he had been wandering around the house looking for something to do. Foolishly, he chose to go through the bathroom and methodically poke and prod at all he could find. Little tablets of medicine which he proudly recalled what would constitute a fatal dose, towelettes, scale oil, a small but sharp pair of shears. And at the back of a drawer, a grubby tube. He had yanked off the lid and tilted, but nothing had fallen out. Looking inside and canting it to match up with the lighting, he knew there was something at the bottom. Not knowing the twisting mechanism, he had stuck his smallest finger in, and withdrew it to find it coated in a brilliant smear of ch'omul. It had all clicked, and without a care in the world, he had gleefully and unabashedly smeared it over his chufa.

Looking back, it must have been a very expensive tube. The color was vivid and glittering, as vibrant as the scales of a skora fish struck by twin Cardassian suns.

He did not enjoy what came next. Tain, startling him with a hand on his shoulder, the man's ( _his father's_ ) voice never once raising as he instructed Garak to wash himself off and then to follow him. His step faltering when he realized where they were headed. The mix of dread and incomprehension that washed over him. But... he had done all of his chores...

Garak's breath drew short, and he forcibly pushed the memory aside. It had been so long since he had recalled it. He would have preferred to keep it that way.

With shaking hands, he pulled out the tube and stared at it. Tain could not possibly know. How could he?

It took all the energy he had, but he hauled himself up. He made his way to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. At his haggard face and dull eyes. At her unadorned, grey chufa.

The cap came off with a pop, and the ch'omul was spun higher. Her breath quickened when it passed the lip of the tube. She dragged it upward, and for an instant, it became the center of her world. The ch'omul was spread on in stiff, jerky motions. No mother had ever sat her down and showed her how.

Her suspicions had been right. The ch'omul was so pale, the blue could have been the flush of her own skin or a trick of the light. Maybe that made it better. No one would know but her.

**Author's Note:**

> I might add more to this, I'm not sure yet. Maybe something with Julian. I'm open to ideas.
> 
> Kudos and comments make my week! <3


End file.
